


In Plain Sight

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Ten Years Later, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Let Sawada have his title, let the other Guardians vie for respect and accolades from the rest of the ever-hungry mafia; Mukuro thrives in the shadows, flourishes at the fringes, and with Chrome in his arms he has claim to a greater pleasure than anything petty power could lay as tribute at his feet." The Vongola Mist Guardian is always able to amuse themselves, whether on the job or off it.





	1. Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snkt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snkt/gifts).



Sawada is waiting for them when they arrive.

“Ah,” he says as Mukuro pushes open the door to the main office in the headquarters, looking up from the array of papers spread out across the flat surface before him. He looks frazzled and overwhelmed, the way he always does when he’s not facing down an immediate threat to himself or to the mismatched group of followers he has declared as his family. Mukuro is always a little amused by that, by the distance that exists between Sawada-as-himself and Sawada-as-leader, and how rarely the latter is seen even in situations that might call for it. It’s as if the other lives two lives at once, as if he bears in himself the same kind of dual existence that Mukuro used to carry; but unlike Chrome and Mukuro’s relationship, he still hasn’t gotten the knack of switching between one and the other under anything less than extreme duress. Mukuro wonders, sometimes, if a little training in Mist flames might not do wonders for Sawada’s professional presentation; but offering such is as good as taking his life in his hands if Hibari were ever to hear of it, and Mukuro is more amused than otherwise by the mismatch in any case. Better to leave Sawada to make his own way, however he can; and if he proves unable in the end to maintain his power, well, all the better a power vacuum for Mukuro to step into.

“Thank you for coming,” Sawada says now, lurching to his feet with such haste he appears in some danger of toppling over the table before him outright. “I need to talk to you.”

Mukuro ducks his head into a nod, an acknowledgment of the other’s need rather than admitting to any kind of superiority in Sawada’s position. “Of course,” he says, as smoothly as he can make the acquiescence. “The Mist Guardian is ready to assist. Did you intend to speak to myself or to my dear Chrome?” He has to step to the side at that last so he can lift a hand to touch Chrome’s shoulder and draw her forward; old habits linger long, and Sawada’s not the only one who still struggles to claim the authority of their role. Mukuro doesn’t mind; he rather relishes the excuse to press his touch close against Chrome’s shoulder, and after all the most striking beauty is that which goes unseen by most. But Sawada is the head of the Family that encompasses them, even if only ostensibly, and Mukuro isn’t about to let his other half melt into his shadow as she so often seems willing to do.

“Chrome,” Sawada says, and ducks his head into a somewhat greater acknowledgment than he gave to Mukuro. Chrome tips her head forward in answer, out of shyness more than capitulation, but Sawada is looking back to Mukuro already and doesn’t linger for a greater show of surrender. “Both of you, of course. I’ll need the pair of you together to handle this issue.” He braces both hands at the edge of the desk before him and leans in against the support as he takes a breath as if drawing himself into focus. “The situation--”

“ _Tenth!_ ” It’s a shout from the other side of the heavy door, muffled by the barrier but shrill enough to draw the attention of all three presently in the room. Mukuro touches against Chrome’s back, his fingers a suggestion towards action that she takes as immediately as he draws himself back and away, and then the door flies open and Gokudera Hayato all but topples through in a tangle of silver hair and with the acrid bite of gunpowder sweeping in his wake.

“Tenth,” he gasps, hardly sparing a glance for Mukuro and Chrome standing alongside the door he has so hastily thrown open. “You’re needed right away.”

“Tsuna!” That’s Yamamoto’s voice, a little calmer than Gokudera’s but carrying the more clearly for the open door; he appears behind Gokudera, striding forward with his usual lithe grace and easy smile. The smile says nothing about the relative danger -- Mukuro has seen the man beam as if in the middle of a baseball game while surrounded by half a dozen enemies -- but the fact that the sword at his hip is still in its sheath at least removes the possibility of truly imminent danger, Gokudera’s hysteria notwithstanding. “Do you have a minute?”

“He’s _busy_ ,” Gokudera hisses, rounding on Yamamoto behind him with as much bite on his words as if the other isn’t repeating the same request he himself just delivered in more aggressive tones. “I was just explaining what’s going on.”

“Sure,” Yamamoto says, not appearing at all ruffled by this retort. “Let’s all catch up together.”

Gokudera makes a sound past his teeth like a fuse sparking with fire. “I _told_ you I--”

“I’ll come with you both,” Sawada says, speaking loud and with both hands held up to stave off an oncoming explosion. Mukuro doesn’t think such is very likely -- Yamamoto is still grinning with his usual unflappable cheer, and for all Gokudera’s crackle he’s gotten better at directing his energy towards actual opponents -- but Sawada is always ruffled by squabbles within the group, and this apparently overrides everything else. He comes around the weight of his desk, still waving his hands to disperse the bickering Gokudera is levelling at Yamamoto’s laughing replies before sparing an apologetic grimace towards Mukuro and Chrome just to the side of the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Do you mind waiting until I get back? I’d like to talk over the plan I have in mind before you leave.”

Mukuro inclines his head to the side. “The Mist Guardian awaits the command of the Tenth,” he says, with only a little bit of mockery on the words. It’s enough for Chrome to notice -- she grabs at the back of his jacket where the others can’t see and twists hard enough to convey her judgment -- but Sawada doesn’t seem to hear the teasing, or if he does he doesn’t care enough to comment on it.

“Great,” he says, sounding as truly relieved as if he’s been granted a reprieve instead of given agreement by someone technically his own underling. “I’ll be as fast as I can.” And he turns to leave Mukuro and Chrome alone in his office, ducking his head to listen to Gokudera’s hissed information before they’re even well clear of the door. The weight of it swings shut to latch with a _click_ as heavy as the sound of a deadbolt turning over, and Mukuro is left to raise his eyebrows at the smooth dark of the wood.

“Trusting as ever, our Tenth,” he drawls. “Let go of me, Chrome, he didn’t notice in any case.”

Chrome eases her hold -- a relief, to know that her obedience is still more due to him than to the Family in which they both play a part -- but her gaze is still dark when Mukuro looks back over his shoulder to smile at her. “We shouldn’t make fun of him,” she says, her voice soft but the words certain. “He is the Boss.”

Mukuro lets his mouth pull up onto a smirk. “Changing allegiances on me at last, my sweet Chrome?” He turns to face Chrome fully, his smile pulling wider as she flinches back and shakes her head in immediate rejection of Mukuro’s claim. “I see how it is. You’ve finally grown tired of your devoted lord and want to trade me in for someone younger and more handsome?”

Chrome draws back, shaking her head with such force that her hair slips forward around her shoulders to curtain her face. “No,” she says. “Never, Mukuro-sama.”

“Are you certain?” Mukuro teases, still grinning as he steps across the distance over which Chrome has staged her retreat. He lifts a hand to touch against the weight of her hair and push it back from the delicate shape of her features; she ducks her head, keeping her gaze cast down between them, but the angle just leaves the arc of heavy lashes to mark out a shadow across the pale of her cheek. Mukuro touches his thumb to the curve of it, trailing his touch over Chrome’s skin as he urges her hair back behind her shoulder; Chrome leans in at once, her body canting to the side to trail his touch as if she’s made of metal joining itself to the drag of a magnet, and Mukuro can feel the heat of her surrender thrum down his spine and tighten a knot of possibility low in his belly. “Your interests have not changed over all this time?” Chrome is backing up in time with Mukuro’s advance, her feet following the intent of Mukuro’s motion; Mukuro keeps going, moving them towards the weight of the desk that always looks so oversized with Sawada’s uncertain frown set behind it. “Your devotion remains what it always was?”

Chrome takes a last step back, her motion carrying her right into the edge of the desk behind her. Her hands catch at the edge of it, her fingers tightening to steady herself before her lashes rise to cast her gaze up towards Mukuro before her. Mukuro smiles as Chrome looks up, seeing the answer in the smoke of her lashes and the shine of her eye on him even before she swallows and speaks with more clarity than she has offered to any other words over the whole of the afternoon.

“It does.” Certain, strong, as clear as the grip of her hands at the desk and the focus of her eye on Mukuro’s face, her gaze rather condensed than diminished by the line of the black eyepatch cutting through the indigo weight of her hair falling around her features. “I am always yours entirely, Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro lets a breath go, the heat of it on his lips more pleasure than surprise. “My sweet Chrome,” he says, and doesn’t try to call back the purr of heat that layers itself over his voice. His hand slides around to the back of Chrome’s neck, bracing near against her skin as his fingers urge her head back and her face up towards the light. “And I am always glad to have you.” And he ducks forward and down, reaching to brace a hand at the surface of the table behind Chrome and frame her with his body at the same time he lays claim to her mouth with the full heat of his own. Chrome capitulates at once, arching back into the support of Mukuro’s hand at her head as she lifts an arm to cling to the line of his shoulder, and Mukuro bends her farther backwards, making artistry of the curve of her spine as he takes heat of his own from amidst the detritus of the dull dominance Sawada has claimed for himself. Let Sawada have his title, let the other Guardians vie for respect and accolades from the rest of the ever-hungry mafia; Mukuro thrives in the shadows, flourishes at the fringes, and with Chrome in his arms he has claim to a greater pleasure than anything petty power could lay as tribute at his feet.

They continue uncontested in their distraction for some time. The desk is wide, the support of it heavy enough to bear far harsher use than what the two of them are putting it to; it’s more than capable of holding both their weight, even with Chrome urged back against the edge of it and the full of Mukuro’s strength to pin her there. Mukuro begins to think of other uses, of the edge of the surface so precisely aligned with his hips, of the span of the desk made a frame for the canvas of Chrome’s skirt, for the beauty of the bare skin it presently covers, and he’s just angling his knee into the shadows between Chrome’s thighs when there’s a shout from the other side of the door and Chrome startles away with a sharp, sudden gasp.

“Boss--” she starts, beginning an explanation before it’s needed; but the door doesn’t come open, even when Mukuro turns his head to glance back over his shoulder with more curiosity and less haste than was in Chrome’s reaction. They’re both still there for a moment, caught into compromise by the line of Mukuro’s body shaping itself over the curve of Chrome’s, and then Chrome shudders out an exhale of relief and Mukuro smiles before he looks back down to seek out the attention of her eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t need to worry.”

Chrome shakes her head, the motion unequivocal even if her hands are still caught at the shoulder and lapel of Mukuro’s suit jacket. “He could come back anytime,” she murmurs. “Any of them could. We can’t do this.”

“Oh, I think we can,” Mukuro purrs, ducking in to kiss against the curve of Chrome’s cheek. Her lashes flutter, her lips part on satisfying proof of heat even if Mukuro isn’t so naïve as to mistake desire for surrender. “It’s the risk that makes it exciting.”

Chrome’s mouth sets and she shakes her head hard enough to spill her hair to a wave across her shoulders. “It’s too much. If someone comes in--”

“Then they’ll find us together,” Mukuro says, drawing the words into the shape of the arousal they make in his own mind. “My hand under your shirt, your thighs around my hips.” He leans in closer, enough to angle Chrome back into the support of the hand he has at her back. “You spread out across the same desk of our beloved boss.”

Chrome huffs a breath. “Mukuro-sama.”

“We’d claim it for ourselves,” Mukuro tells the weight of Chrome’s hair falling to the shadow of a curtain against the line of her face. “Imagine, every time we come in we’d see what we had done, clear as an illusion only for us.” He slides his hand down Chrome’s back, tracing the dip of it down to the curve of her hip so he can tighten his fingers against the soft swell of her body to make punctuation for his offer. “We’ve never had the chance to christen this room, my dear.”

Chrome’s hand slides free from Mukuro’s shoulder, her palm presses to his chest. “No” but Mukuro is already letting go, surrendering immediately to Chrome’s rejection as soon as it becomes clear. His cock is aching inside his dark pants, throbbing with the want stirred as much by the heat of Chrome against him as by the play of his own imagination over shadowed possibility, but Chrome’s touch spoke clearly enough to leave no questions between them well before her words did. Mukuro straightens from their lean over the table, giving Chrome enough space to sit up and lift her hand to straighten her hair back over her shoulder while still staying close enough to offer her a hand of support if she should need it.

“Too bad,” he says, sighing over the admission even as he gives it. “It would have been fun to mark this room as our own. I suppose I’ll have to come up with some way to give us another chance without the risk of exhibitionism.”

Chrome doesn’t answer for a moment. She has her head ducked down and her gaze fixed on the ends of her hair, where she’s smoothing them from the rumple Mukuro’s touch has made of them; it’s only as she urges them back over her shoulder that she lifts her head, that her lashes raise for her to cast her gaze up to shadows under the burden of their weight.

“You misunderstood,” she says, her tone nearly apologetic for all the declaration on her words. “I don’t want the Boss to find me in a compromising position.” She ducks her head and lifts a hand to urge a nonexistent lock of hair back behind her ear. “I’m not opposed to the possibility of such for you, Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro’s eyebrows jump up in spite of himself. After a decade of living together -- after multiple years of existing within the same form -- he thinks he should be immune to surprises such as this, but Chrome has never easily given up all her secrets, even to him. It’s the pleasure of the shock as much as delight at her suggestion that spills a laugh up his throat to glow warm and bright in the air around them.

“Ah, my sweet Chrome,” he says, lifting both hands to press against the sides of her face and turn the retiring beauty of her features up towards the illumination above them. Chrome lifts her gaze to meet his without flinching, without even holding back the tension of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth, and it’s in moments like this that Mukuro appreciates the years that have passed more keenly than anything else, just for the quiet self-assurance they have granted to make a woman out of what was once a frightened girl. “You truly have become a force to be reckoned with in your own right, my dear.”

Chrome’s lashes dip, her gaze shifts down and away. “I’m glad you think so,” she says, but her smile is bright enough to undermine her claim of modesty even before she lifts her hand to replace the weight of her palm at Mukuro’s lapel. “I am always glad to be of service to you.”

“You always are,” Mukuro tells her. Chrome pushes at his chest and he turns at once, giving over his position leaning over her to invert their angle at the support until it’s she who has him pressed to the weight of Sawada’s desk and his hands that are caught behind him to support himself against the surface. With Chrome standing in front of him Mukuro can see right over the top of her head to the door, still shut tight in its frame by Sawada’s hasty exit; he can feel his skin prickle with pleasant self-consciousness at the thought of it coming open unexpectedly to reveal them in even this minimally compromising position.

Mukuro tips his head down to smile at Chrome before him. Her head is ducked forward, her gaze cast down towards the span of his chest as if she’s too shy to meet his eyes. It’s a persuasive illusion; but then, Mukuro has always been skilled at seeing past deception.

“So,” he purrs in his lowest, richest vocal range. “What is it you mean to do with me, sweet Chrome?”

Chrome presses her lips together, works her throat over the intention of a swallow before she speaks in the breathless tone she drops into whenever she is distracted enough to fall into habit. “Can you form an illusion if the boss comes back?”

“I can do a very great deal,” Mukuro tells her. “I live to serve your whims, you know.”

Chrome glances up to meet his eyes with her own, her expression so neutrally blank it all but shouts skepticism, but all she says is “Watch the door” with a bite of something nearly command on the back of her voice. The sound is exciting in itself, another sign of the victory she has won over the shrinking terror that so hid her away when Mukuro first found her, but there’s no time for Mukuro to even hum a smile in answer to this display of backbone, because Chrome is ducking her head once more, hiding her features in the shadow of her hair as she folds to press her knees to the floor at Mukuro’s feet. There’s a thrill to that, too, to the overt gesture of surrender even if they both know it to be no more than another of the illusions they play with so readily between them, and Mukuro is still purring pleasure in the back of his throat at the sight when Chrome lifts her hands to unfasten the weight of the dark belt holding his pants in place on his hips.

Mukuro doesn’t move to help her. Chrome knows well enough what she wants to seek without him reaching to offer the temptations of reality to her; and he has a feeling his time will be better spent in preparation himself. He steadies his footing instead, angling his knees apart and bracing his hands at the edge of the desk behind him; there are papers scattered across much of the surface, but he finds a pair of empty spots so he can rest his palms against the smooth wood without worrying about rumpling the papers or leaving finger- or palm-prints against one or another of the very important reports that Sawada is forced to wade through every day. It’s part of the burden of his position, one of the unpleasant necessities that follow organically from his role as head of the family; one that Mukuro is just as glad to be free of for the liberty it gives him to lead his life as he chooses. He and Chrome might be on call to Sawada’s need, true, might be summoned to the stern grandeur of this room at their leader’s behest; but it is Sawada who is called to deal with crises along with his most trusted followers, leaving the two who make up his single Mist Guardian to amuse themselves at their own leisure. The thought curls at Mukuro’s mouth, twisting up the corners of his lips as he looks down at Chrome unfastening his pants and unfolding the fabric just enough to lay bare the heat of his straining erection before lifting a hand to urge her hair back behind her ear and bracing the other against Mukuro’s hip as she takes a breath to speak. “Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro lifts a hand to smooth over the top of Chrome’s head. “Yes, my dear?”

Chrome drops her hand from her hair to close her fingers into a matched hold at Mukuro’s other hip. “Watch the door,” she says, without any space on the words for surrender or argument, and then she’s leaning forward and parting her lips as a single action. Mukuro’s huff of startled laughter gives way as her lips press against the head of his cock, his voice stolen out of his throat by the friction of Chrome’s mouth sliding down over him, and for a moment he can’t even consider obedience for the radiance of pleasure that unfurls through him. His head goes back, his hips rock forward, and in the first groan of heat in his throat he’s grateful for the weight of the walls around them and the door shut tight in its frame, as the barriers meant to block heated conversations serve the purpose of muffling heat of a very different sort at his lips. Chrome’s fingers tighten at his hips, the pressure serving a warning even if her mouth is too occupied to put words to the same, but Mukuro is lifting his head already, returning his hand to brace at the desk and returning his gaze to the door with all the attention he can spare from the heat purring over itself in the depths of his stomach. Chrome still pauses for a moment, looking up through her lashes like she’s thinking about pulling away again, until Mukuro glances down at her and huffs a self-deprecating laugh.

“I know,” he says, ducking his head into surrender. “I’ll be good.” It’s a foolish thing to claim, when they both know exactly how fleeting his relationship with _good_ has ever been, but it’s enough to lower Chrome’s lashes, and steady her hold, and return her to the effort she has set for herself. Mukuro’s thighs flex as Chrome’s lips slide over him, as Chrome’s tongue drags to work up and over the length of his cock in her mouth; but he lifts his gaze all the same, pinning himself to the door with the vague idea of forming a disguising illusion in the event of an unexpected interruption.

Chrome doesn’t hesitate in finding a rhythm. Mukuro has known her in all moods, sweet and desperate and coy and needy; Chrome conforms to her setting, shaping herself to the need of her environment and making herself indispensable in the process. They are under pressure, now, with the weight of the shut door a countdown whose numbers neither of them can read, and Chrome acts accordingly, taking Mukuro’s length far back in her mouth at once before sliding away to draw them into a rhythm only saved from overt haste by the confidence of her actions. There is speed to her motion, a conscious urging to the fit of her lips and the drag of her tongue, but there is no trace of anxiety, no tremor of the self-conscious fear that would tip her over into panic. She knows what she’s doing, has faced down the risk and laid claim to it with both hands: as she lays claim to Mukuro, now, tipped back against the support of the table to hold him up while Chrome’s mouth and lips and tongue steal all the strength out of his legs with each stroke. Mukuro is proud of his stamina, is pleased with his ability to restrain himself as long as need be, under the right circumstances, but Chrome cuts right past all his self-restraint before he can think of whether to make use of it or not, she breaks him down to trembling knees and straining breath before he has any chance to even attempt composure. Her lips press in against his cock, her tongue drags over the head as if precisely calibrated to seek out his weakest points, and Mukuro is left to clutch at the desk under his hands and pant open-mouthed as desire rises in his belly faster than he thought possible in helpless response to Chrome’s movement. He may be on his feet while Chrome remains kneeling at the floor, but there’s no question in his mind who steers them both, who has taken control over the shared existence that they linger in together.

“Chrome,” Mukuro manages, forcing the words past his straining throat as the next best thing to a groan. “You will have me undone like this.”

Chrome doesn’t even lift her lashes to glance up at him, much less pull back to fit words to the shape of her reply. She just leans in closer, pressing nearer to Mukuro’s hips and taking his cock farther into the heat of her mouth, conveying her intention better with sensation than speech, and Mukuro does moan, then, muffling the note as much as he may but unable and unwilling to stifle it outright. His hips buck forward, chasing the give of Chrome’s mouth in spite of the hold she has at his hips, and when her grip tightens it’s more encouragement than protest. Mukuro gains an inch of motion, enough to rock himself up and off the edge of the desk and into Chrome’s mouth, and Chrome shifts her knees wider and tips her head forward to take a better angle on the shift of her lips as she moves.

Mukuro watches her for a moment, feeling the shift in her shoulders as if it’s tension flexing against his own thighs, as if the pressure of heat in his body is rising color to Chrome’s cheeks as well, the lines between them blurring into a haze of joined arousal; and then he lifts his head to return his focus to the door as he was ordered. He doesn’t really need to watch Chrome anyway; moments like this he can feel their awareness bleeding one into the other, as if they’re back in the shared space of one body rather than occupying two ostensibly separate existences. Her mouth moves, his lips part, her fingers shift, his cock twitches, until Mukuro can feel their focus giving way to heat enough to eclipse even the excitement of danger and the adrenaline of being caught. He can bring up an illusion at a moment’s notice, in the space between one heartbeat and the next; he could make them appear on the other side of the room if he wished, could mask their reality from Sawada’s or any other’s eyes. But it’s hard to remember that he should, hard to recall why it matters: why shouldn’t Sawada, the other Guardians, the whole world see them as they are, as the unified whole they truly ought to be? It’s the world that separates them, that insists on _two_ when there has only ever been _one_ , that draws a line between their bodies and souls when there is no more than a vague sense of _other_ at even the clearest of moments. This joining, this shared heat, this indulgence in the intimacy that is most natural to them both: perhaps the Vongola would do better to see their Mist Guardian for who they really are.

A thumb slides at Mukuro’s hip. Perhaps it’s just to brace him, just a means for Chrome to steady out a rhythm gone astray; Mukuro knows it would seem that to someone else, to someone not within the space of his own head as he is, as Chrome ever is. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t seek out the needless comfort of eye contact; but he does lift a hand from the desk, giving over physical support in exchange for the soft of dark hair against his palm. His fingers tighten, his hand strokes to smooth through Chrome’s hair; and Chrome presses near, taking the whole of Mukuro’s cock back into her mouth at once. Her lips tighten, her tongue slides, her throat works, and Mukuro shuts his eyes, and lifts his head, and lets himself spill into Chrome’s mouth, pulsing through waves of pleasure over the catch of her lips around him. Each tremor courses through his body, quivering through his existence from toes to head, and for a long, glorious moment, Mukuro loses track of everything in the world except that single most important identity.

They don’t linger long. Mukuro appreciates the chance to stay pressed close to Chrome whenever he can, to let the heat of satisfaction blend seamlessly into the languid comfort of afterglow, but he doesn’t protest when Chrome pulls away as soon as he’s finished tremoring through the last quiver of his orgasm. They are still in Sawada’s office, after all, behind a door that is shut without bearing the privacy of a lock, and that gives them good reason to compose themselves rather faster than otherwise. Mukuro straightens from the desk to pull his pants back up around his hips and return his belt to the clasp of the buckle; Chrome occupies herself in getting to her feet and smoothing her skirt down over her knees before urging her hands through her hair to make a smooth line of it. Mukuro checks the papers on the desk, reaching out to push one very slightly to the side to return it to its original alignment, before he comes forward to turn around and stand next to Chrome in the clear space in the middle of the room. Chrome reaches to tug Mukuro’s ponytail back over his shoulder, and Mukuro touches at the back of Chrome’s shirt collar to lie it a little more smoothly at the back of her neck, and then the door opens and they both turn at once, only the matched grace of their action lingering to speak to the indulgence they have just shared.

“Sorry about that,” Sawada says, looking more harried than he did when they came in. “I don’t think that was really that much of an emergency but--” He cuts himself off and shakes his head as if to shed the negative thought instead of speaking it. “Anyway. Thank you for your patience.”

“Of course,” Mukuro says, his voice levelled off to perfect smoothness rather than admitting to any part of the heat still warm and liquid in all his veins. “We’re adults, we can find something to occupy ourselves for a few minutes.” Chrome’s expression doesn’t shift, her gaze doesn’t flicker, but Mukuro still reaches behind himself to catch at her wrist as she reaches out to jerk against the back of his jacket again. Chrome’s hand shifts, her wrist turning in Mukuro’s hold, but when Mukuro eases his grip it’s only so she can interlace her fingers with his in the shadow between them. Mukuro chances a glance sideways at Chrome’s face; she’s not looking at him, but there’s the tension of a smile at the flushed color of her lips, small enough that he thinks even Sawada can’t see it but as clear to Mukuro as if he’s feeling it himself. His own mouth twitches, amusement pressing against the inside of his chest, and he lifts his gaze from Chrome to match her attention to Sawada just lowering himself to sit in the chair at the far side of the desk.

“We’re at your disposal,” Mukuro says without trying to hold back the smirk at his mouth. “How may we be of service?”


	2. Open Eyes

By the time they make it back home, Mukuro is as tense as Chrome has ever seen him.

Any reasonable expectation would frame it the other way around. It was Mukuro who shuddered into pleasure against the edge of the Boss’s desk at headquarters, and Chrome who smoothed her clothes back into place over the ache of unsatisfied want without so much as a gesture towards finding relief of her own; over the hour of conversation that followed it should have been her that wound steadily tighter with every word out of the Boss’s mouth, who began to clip off her speech to nearly rude brevity and tap her fingers to strain at the edge of the couch. But it’s Mukuro whose smile grows tighter with every passing minute, Mukuro whose usual languid stance hardens into the pressure of impatience, until Chrome suspects they leave more because of the Boss’s unwillingness to go on holding the other where he sits than because they truly have concluded the conversation. For her part Chrome lets Mukuro express all the tension for the both of them, holding her own desire to build into a pleasant ache of anticipation deep in the lowest point of her belly; she spent years waiting for Mukuro to take his place at her side, she can surely wait for the span of another hour for the satisfaction she craves.

There’s no question, after all, that she’ll be receiving it in excess.

Mukuro doesn’t disappoint her. He never does in anything, but least of all in these matters: he’s turning to Chrome almost as soon as they leave the study, backing her into the shadows of a hallway to press his mouth firm against hers, to write the promise of more at her lips with the weight of his own. He limits himself to that, just the urging of his mouth without any of the wandering hands or urging tongue that he might have coupled with it, but that just spikes Chrome’s anticipation the hotter, until it’s so keen she feels something almost like the anxious strain so clear across Mukuro’s shoulders as he leads the way out of headquarters. They pass Hibari on their way out, coming through the front doors with his constant shadow Kusakabe in tow, but Mukuro doesn’t even pause for his usual needling of that favorite target; Chrome just has time to see the flare of indigo light as Mukuro throws an illusion to mask them and swings wide to stay out of Hibari’s range. The other still glances in their direction -- his sensitivity to Mist flames is a boon to his perception, even if he refuses to acknowledge it -- but Mukuro is moving quickly enough that Chrome must nearly run to keep up, and if Hibari wants a fight he doesn’t seek it quickly enough to stop them before they are out of the doors and free of Headquarters.

Mukuro doesn’t pause as they approach the privacy of their own home, a small house tucked far back into a grove of trees that become a shroud of petals with the advent of springtime. They’re green, now, the weight of the leaves overhead enough to throw the house itself into a darkness enough to give the illusion of dusk even in the height of the afternoon, but Mukuro doesn’t stop to turn on a light as he draws the door open and takes the lead inside. Chrome slides the door shut behind them, pausing only to turn the lock over to guarantee them the privacy for which she has been waiting all this time before she turns back to continue down the hallway, following Mukuro through the same interior darkness without making use of any kind of illumination. They both know this space well, from familiarity as much as active attention, and now that the lock is turned over Chrome can feel the pressure in her belly beginning to ache, a dull, distant pressure that still radiates out into her body with a tension that is not quite painful, as it is, but that nonetheless quivers at her fingertips and flutters her heartbeat fast as she steps down the hallway in echo of Mukuro’s already fallen footsteps.

Mukuro is waiting in the bedroom. Waiting is something of a mistaken description; by the time Chrome comes to stand in the doorway he’s stripped himself of his jacket and unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves. He’s just rolling the second up around his elbow to match the first as she pauses in the entrance; he doesn’t turn around to look at her but Chrome has no doubt he knows she’s standing there as surely as she would be able to sense his approach were their positions reversed. He pushes his sleeve up off his forearm and lifts a hand to the collar of his shirt as he lifts his chin so he can loosen his tie from around his neck; when he speaks he does so without turning to meet Chrome’s gaze at his back.

“My dear Chrome.” Mukuro’s voice ripples over the shadows in his voice, rumbling as if the purr of some enormous cat; the tension in Chrome’s belly squeezes like a fist, as if the sound of his words alone is enough to ache with the memory of his illusions filling the hollows in her body to make the shape of an existence where her own had been stripped away. Mukuro tips his head towards his shoulder; it’s not enough for her to see his face in anything other than shadowy profile, but she can hear the rustle of his hair shifting, can see the flicker of movement over his white shirt as the long ponytail down his back ripples to a wave at the motion. “Have you grown weary of your reserve?”

Chrome presses her lips together and shuts her eye for the span of a breath. She doesn’t need to; she knows her answer as well as Mukuro does, as surely as they can both feel the heat of desire crackling in the air between them. So she offers silence instead, the quiet loaded with more words than she would ever be able to give shape at her lips, and when she lifts her lashes again Mukuro is looking back at her. There’s no uncertainty in his expression: only the dark of his gaze, and the quirk of his smile, and the catch of his fingers hooked into the knot of his tie loosened an inch down his chest.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, murmuring the words almost to himself, Chrome thinks, as much as to her, and then he strips his tie free of its knot and slips it free of his collar outright. Chrome stays where she is, standing in the doorway with her skin shivering to heat and her fingers braced at the frame, but she makes no move at all to strip herself of her own clothing, and Mukuro doesn’t ask it of her. He lets his tie fall to the floor, the strip of dark fabric puddling into shadow in the dim-lit room, and when he turns to stride back to Chrome it’s with a certainty to his pace that Chrome can feel like a drumbeat marking out the rhythm of her heart thudding in her chest.

Mukuro doesn’t pause as he comes closer. There’s no hesitation in his steps, no slowing in his stride; he crosses the distance at once, consuming it in long steps forward until he’s close enough to lift a hand to brush Chrome’s hair back from her face, or to slide the weight of her eyepatch off the scarred absence of vision she carries beneath it. He does neither, though; when he lifts his hands it’s to touch his fingers to her shoulders, to trace over the seam of her coat like he’s checking the fit of it. Chrome stands still, shoulders back and head up and gaze fixed full on Mukuro’s face, until he lifts his own attention to meet hers. They look at each other for a moment, Chrome’s one eye holding Mukuro’s mismatched pair with expectation more than submission, and when Mukuro smiles it carries the warmth of pride under it even before he draws a foot back so he can fold to his knees at the floor before Chrome’s feet.

Chrome stays where she is. On his knees Mukuro’s head is inches from her hands, the smooth weight of his hair waiting to be claimed by her touch, but she stays upright, unsupported by any but her own feet and the friction of her hand still upraised to brace at the frame of the door around her. For his part Mukuro doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t even look up to imply it of her; instead his attention is tracking the slide of his hands, where he’s set them at the curve of Chrome’s hips. His touch draws along the outside seam, his fingers work over the smooth line of the fabric, and Chrome lifts her head and shuts her eye again, surrendering sight in exchange for clearer focus on the feel of Mukuro’s hands urging her skirt up her thighs and over the dark of the stockings she drew on before their departure. The hem rises, sliding with seductive delay up her thighs in response to Mukuro’s touch, until Chrome can feel the inches of bare skin just over the tops of her stockings finally laid bare for Mukuro’s gaze as much as his touch. Even then Mukuro doesn’t speak; he just braces a hand at Chrome’s skirt, his fingers curling to hold the fabric in place so he can free his other hand from its burden. His palm touches Chrome’s thigh again, settling into place at the inside of her knee before trailing up over the unbroken smooth of her stocking, and Chrome presses a little harder at the frame of the doorway keeping her balance over her feet. It would be easy to reach for Mukuro’s shoulder, to brace herself in place over the man kneeling in tribute before her feet, but she keeps her free hand slack at her side, making no move either to help or hinder as Mukuro’s fingers trail over her stockings, against the inside of her bare thigh, up to lay claim to the lacy fabric of her panties.

Mukuro doesn’t tease her. Some days he does; Chrome remembers full mornings lost to the tremor of pleasure endlessly building without breaking free of its restraints, remembers hours of sleep lost to the coaxing pull of hands wandering almost but never quite where she wants them, until she thought the merest brush of a knuckle against the underside of a breast would be enough to bring her to shuddering orgasm. But Mukuro is impatient, Chrome knows, worn taut on the necessity of delay, and when he moves to push her panties aside and slide up into her he brings two fingers to the force, offering the press and drag of a pair of knuckles and his elegant-long fingers to the ache between Chrome’s legs. The first stroke is pure heat -- friction, force, strain and slick -- and for a breath Chrome is glad for her hand at the frame alongside her, is grateful for the strength in her arm to keep her on her feet as Mukuro’s fingers drive into her. There’s an ache to it, a sudden burst of relief to a pain Chrome has carried almost to familiarity over the last hour, until she feels herself all but hollowed by the touch, some deep-set part of herself unravelled and laid open just for the urging of Mukuro’s touch within her.

“Ah,” Mukuro says, but his voice makes it a moan, turns the sound into heat at the farthest point of his throat. “My sweet Chrome.” And he draws back, and strokes again, and Chrome does reach out, then, to claim the support of his shoulder as his fingers stoke a fire in her in place of the ache that was there before. Her fingers catch at the fabric of his shirt and tighten into a fist at his collar, and even without looking to see the curve of his smile Chrome can hear the threat of a laugh on the tension of Mukuro’s breathing as he steadies himself in place and begins to move in earnest.

There’s something dizzying about the feel of Mukuro’s fingers in her, Chrome always finds. Maybe it’s some echo, some memory of past-tense pleasure when the lines between her body and his were still so blurred she wasn’t always sure whose voice might spill from the pleasure-tension of a throat, wasn’t sure whose wrist would flex and strain over the action of urging fingers. Maybe it’s just the pressure that has been purring in her since that interlude at Headquarters that filled her mouth with the taste of salt and stripped all the tension from Mukuro’s limbs into boneless pleasure. Maybe it’s that Mukuro knows her absolutely, with all the intimacy that comes from those years of time spent sharing a single existence, and that his fingers seek out the ache within her with precise, unerring focus. It doesn’t matter, in the end: because there’s only one thing that ever matters to Chrome, when Mukuro is with her, and the proof of that is in the support under her hand, and the grip at her skirt, and the hum of pleasure-warmth breathing spilling against the hem of her shirt slipping loose over her hip.

“Chrome,” Mukuro purrs, and Chrome’s blood sings, rising like steam to cloud her thoughts and blur her vision where she’s tipping in against her hand bracing hard at the doorframe. “You’re so beautiful like this.” A shift, a drag, lips at her thigh and breathing against the lace of her panties as strong fingers flex, pull, stroke into her. “I love to have you trembling for me.”

Chrome presses her lips together, swallows hard to clear her throat. “Is it--” Mukuro’s fingers press up, thrusting deep into her; her head goes back, her breath strains on a groan in her throat. “Is it worth the wait?”

Mukuro’s laugh is a living thing, darker than his voice, hotter than his touch. “My dear,” he says. “You are always worth it.” And his touch comes up, the force of his motion enough to rock Chrome’s weight up over the balance of her toes, and Chrome’s mouth comes open as she shudders over a full-body spasm of heat in answer. The pleasure of it rushes over her at once, rising up from the press of Mukuro’s fingers and braced in place by the hold of Mukuro’s grip at her skirt so it seems to double back on her, waves spilling one atop the other to rush her out of herself and into the shape of something greater, brighter, more transcendent than anything Chrome has ever been alone. For a long moment she’s held there, formed to the outline of what she could be more than what she is; then Mukuro’s touch in her eases, the grip of pleasure lets her go, and Chrome sags back to the support of her feet and the fist she has at Mukuro’s collar as Mukuro works his fingers gently back out of her.

“There,” he says, sounding as self-satisfied as if he’s the one panting breathless and shaky against the support of the doorframe. He gets to his knees in one elegant motion, letting Chrome’s skirt go as he stands; the fabric falls to cover her again and she’s returned to a modicum of decency, even if her cheeks are still flushed with inevitable color from the heat that has just swept through her. “Now we’re even.” Mukuro takes a step back into the room, lifting his head to toss his hair back before he extends a hand towards Chrome. “Shall we begin in truth, now?”

Mukuro’s outstretched hand makes a smooth line up the whole of his arm to his shoulder, a sweep of elegance as well-suited, Chrome thinks, to a ballroom as a bedroom. Chrome looks at him for a moment, appreciating the beauty of it while she catches her breath and composes herself back towards something like self-control; Mukuro waits, the curl of his smile at his lips as unwavering as the invitation of his hand, until finally Chrome has found her breath, has returned herself to something like composure. She lifts her head, shaking her hair back from her shoulders in an unconscious echo of Mukuro’s own gesture; and then she lifts her hand from her side, and steps forward to lay claim to Mukuro’s hand. Mukuro’s smile goes wider, spreading over his face as it brightens behind the shadows of his mismatched eyes, and when he draws her in against him it’s to catch his other hand at the back of her head and tip her back into the distracting warmth of a long, lingering kiss.

Chrome doesn’t know how they free themselves from their clothes. They move together, unfastening or tugging at each other’s clothing as often as their own; as if the same magnetism that urges them together teaches the fastest route to bare skin as well, through skirts and stockings and undershirts and belts. Mukuro strips his shirt up over his head while Chrome unfastens his belt and unbuttons his slacks; while Chrome slips a stocking down her leg Mukuro is unclasping the back of her bra and urging free the zipper holding her skirt against her hip. Their clothing drops to the floor, shirts and skirt and socks and stockings falling into a single heap of disregarded fabric, until there is nothing between the urge of their bodies meeting as closely as their skin does. Mukuro lifts a hand to Chrome’s hair, pressing the locks close to her neck as his other fingers slide over her hip to clasp under her thigh, and Chrome reaches up, looping one arm around Mukuro’s shoulders while the fingers of the other catch at the tie holding back the long weight of his ponytail. The elastic slides free to the urging of her fingers, his hair spills loose over the span of his shoulders, and when Mukuro ducks his head in over Chrome’s neck it’s to purr a laugh to the curve of her throat.

“You wish me unbound?” he murmurs, making the words a suggestion for how much shadow he lets his voice cast over them.

Chrome slides her other arm around Mukuro’s neck to join the first and lets Mukuro’s touch at her thigh urge her foot off the ground and up to loop over his hip. “Bonds can be pleasant, in their own way,” she says, speaking to the span of Mukuro’s chest before her rather than looking up to meet the darkness that ever lurks behind the dip of his lashes. “But I’ve had enough of restraint for today.”

Mukuro doesn’t restrain his laugh at all, this time. It spills warm into Chrome’s hair and against her neck, so heavy with satisfaction she imagines she can feel it like liquid coating her skin and trickling down the curve of her back. “Very well,” he says, and pulls at his hold on her leg to lift her up and free of the support of her feet entirely. Chrome tightens her hold at Mukuro’s neck, turning her head in to brace her forehead at his shoulder as he draws her body to press close against him, and when he shifts it’s as if he’s moving with her own impulse as much as from his own desire. “Let us indulge entirely, then.” His hand slides back, his hold bracing Chrome’s weight as she brings her other leg up to catch around Mukuro’s hip and steady the shift of his body against her, until by the time they have reached the bed she can no longer mark the differences between them and can less value the worth of such distinctions.

Chrome can’t tell which of them moves, as Mukuro lowers them to the bed, as the flex of her thighs draws Mukuro in closer against her, as the span of his hips urges her legs to open for him like the petals of a flower. It’s all one, all a single unified whole, from the brace of his elbow at the sheets over her shoulder to the press of her fingers slipping down the texture of his spine to the mingled heat of their breathing, deep and slow and all the hotter for it. Mukuro turns his head but Chrome is already shutting her eye, already parting her lips for the taste of his tongue and the heat of his breath; Chrome arches her back to angle her hips up but Mukuro is already bucking forward to urge the heat of his arousal in against the give of her own. Chrome doesn’t know how she is oriented, hardly notices the difference between Mukuro’s arms around her and the support of the bed beneath her, but it doesn’t matter anyway; what matters is the shift within her body, the pressure urging to fit inside her and fill the aching want that she can feel like a hollow within the center of her being.

Mukuro rocks forward to fill her, to sheathe himself within her body, and Chrome hooks her ankles together at the curve of his back and draws him down into her, loops her arms around his neck and arches up to pull him atop her, to match them hip-to-hip and skin-to-skin, until she can’t tell if the thunder in her veins is from the pace of her own heart or the rhythm of Mukuro’s pounding in his chest. It’s all the same, all one: Mukuro’s arousal spikes her own, her pleasure stokes the fire of his, until they are both panting for air, until Chrome can feel Mukuro’s strain in the tension of his arm as surely as her own thoughts are going light and dizzy with breathlessness. Her hands are in Mukuro’s hair, her fingers are sliding over his skin; but he’s moving under her touch, or in answer to it, shoulders flexing and thighs working and the rhythm inside her a ceaseless, perfect certainty, pulsing heat through the whole of her body with more consistency than the fragmented effort of her heart pounding in her chest. There is no gravity, there is no reality, there is no Chrome; there is only the friction, and the heat, and every moment of consciousness claimed by the rasp of an inhale, by the flex of thighs, by the work of pressure within and without and together between them.

“Chrome,” Mukuro says, or moves, or thinks; the barriers to understanding are giving way, dissolving under the unhesitating motion of intimacy, of bodies twining to one, of identities melding and merging to the single familiar whole. “My Chrome.”

 _Mukuro_ , Chrome thinks, or says, or is; her lips shift but she doesn’t know if it’s speech they form, if it’s words in her throat or simply the heat of a moan unwinding from her chest to give itself shape in the air between her lips and Mukuro’s skin. Her eye is shut, or open, her hands are slack or tight; she can’t identify the fragments of reality, can’t piece together sanity from the drifting paths of thoughts. Enough to have this one truth: Mukuro against her, Mukuro in her, Mukuro with her, joined in heat shared and refracted one to the other and back again, until Chrome doesn’t know if it’s her own orgasm tightening around the shift of Mukuro’s cock within her or Mukuro’s flexing the strain of even greater heat into his length. Mukuro’s hand tightens, his fingers curling into a tugging pull against the fall of Chrome’s hair over the sheets, and Chrome’s back arches, her arms strain, and when she shouts she can feel the sound ripple like a wave through the entirety of her body pressed flush to Mukuro’s against her. There’s strain at the inside of her thighs, pressure as Mukuro’s legs flex to rock him forward into the support of her body, but what Chrome feels most clearly is the gust of air at the side of her neck as Mukuro breathes out hard with his own release. His hips buck forward, Chrome moans in the back of her throat, and when Mukuro’s arm eases to drop him atop her she is reaching up as readily to wind him into the hold of her body as the pleasure in her own echoes and reverberates into the languid calm that follows such total satisfaction.

Mukuro doesn’t move much, even after their shared heat is spent; he stays close against Chrome, still clasped so near together that the glow of pleasure Chrome can feel coursing through her seems something more wound around the both of them than an independent experience. Her fingers wander through Mukuro’s hair, smoothing against the long path it makes spreading over his shoulders and down the curve of his back; for his part his hand stays pressed to the back of her neck, where his fingers can trail over her skin and the dark of her hair falling over her face and spread across the sheets. It’s only after long minutes that Chrome eases the brace of her heels at the small of Mukuro’s back, and even when she lets her legs spread apart Mukuro lingers where he is, fit between her thighs as comfortably as his chest presses to the swell of her breasts pinned between them.

When Mukuro does finally take a breath it’s slow, a deliberate pull of air at the side of Chrome’s neck as if he’s tasting the heat of her skin on the air as much as breathing for the physical necessity of it. “You were right,” he murmurs.

Chrome turns her head in against the weight of Mukuro’s at her shoulder and slides her fingers down through the shorter strands of hair that frame his face and drape to tickle at her collarbone. “What about?”

“Restraint.” Mukuro lifts his head; his lips brush the line of Chrome’s jaw with the outline of a kiss. “We should do away with it more often.”

Chrome’s lips curve up into a smile that she’s sure Mukuro can feel even if he can’t see it; but: “Perhaps,” is all she says, as she settles her hand to comfort at the back of Mukuro’s head. “I don’t mind testing both options with you, Mukuro-sama.” Mukuro laughs at her neck, and shifts to pin a kiss to her skin, and Chrome turns her head to the side and shuts her eye in surrender to the warmth of Mukuro’s lips.

Chrome is always happy to take Mukuro’s suggestions, even if it’s in her own way.


End file.
